What Fools These Mortals Be
by Su Freund
Summary: Jack wakes alone with no memory of who, what or where he is
1. Default Chapter

Title: What Fools These Mortals Be Part 1: Bottom  
  
Author: Su Freund  
  
Website: www ficwithfins com (insert . instead of spaces in the address)  
  
Status: Series. Part 1 of 3  
  
Category: Angst, Drama (and Jack whumping)  
  
Pairings: None  
  
Spoilers: Minor for Message in a Bottle, Frozen, Abyss  
  
Season: First half of 7  
  
Sequel/Series Info: None  
  
Rating: PG-13  
  
Content Warnings: Contains scenes that might be disturbing to some readers. Allusions to torture and what might be interpreted as activity of a sexual nature. Minor use of bad language.  
  
Summary: Jack wakes alone with no memory of who, what or where he is  
  
Disclaimer: Stargate SG-1 and its characters are the property of Stargate (II) Productions, Showtime/Viacom, MGM/UA, Double Secret Productions, and Gekko Productions. This story is for entertainment purposes only and no money exchanged hands. No copyright infringement is intended. The original characters, situations, and story are the property of the author. This story may not be posted elsewhere without the consent of the author. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author. Copyright © 2004 Su Freund  
  
File Size: 53 KB  
  
Archive: My site, Jackfic yes, SJD yes, Gateworld, FanFiction Net  
  
Author's Note: 1. Thanks to William Shakespeare for the title, and the use of some of his words throughout. This is not a sequel to 'Hell is Murky' but could be considered as the second of an occasional 'Shakespeare Series' of stand alone fics (maybe). 2. Thanks also to Lightfoot for the use of the wonderful illustration of Jack for this fic. What a great artist she is and I feel honoured to use her work to illustrate my fic. See her work on my site as a book cover by Fulinn28 at my Fic With Fins website. The original is available to view in the 'Various' artists art gallery on the site. 3. And last, but certainly far from least, thanks to Bonnie for her beta of this fic. Her comments on my original draft version led to many radical changes which have definitely improved it for the better.  
  
What Fools These Mortals Be Part 1: Bottom  
  
He couldn't move, not even to open his eyes. How the hell was he managing to breathe? His whole body hurt. Every muscle felt like it had been stretched to its limit or beyond. It was as if someone was stabbing him with hot knives, and maybe they were, he couldn't tell. How could he know if he couldn't see anything?  
  
The only sense that seemed to be functioning was that of pain; the others appeared to be missing. He was in absolute agony; that was all he knew. It dominated and overwhelmed him. Determinedly, he strained his ears but could hear nothing. If he could open his eyes would he see?  
  
He considered his breathing. It felt wrong. He wasn't getting enough oxygen and his breath was laboured, his body struggling to gasp at the precious air. Each breath tore at his lungs, making him suffer. More pain. God! He hurt everywhere, there was no respite, and it appeared he could do little or nothing about it. He was helpless.  
  
Trying to scream he realised his mouth would not open. The scream stayed inside, ripping at his heart and soul, tearing him apart. Where am I? He asked. He had no memory of where he might have been before he was here; no conceivable way to work out where he was.  
  
Desperately, he tried to search his mind but found nothing. How could someone's mind be so empty? Just the agony; it subjugated everything else. Maybe if it went away he would know where he was, but it showed no signs of abating.  
  
Then a realisation hit him. Who am I? He didn't even know that! The internal scream started again and he faded into oblivion.  
  
The SGC:  
  
The klaxon sounded and General George Hammond stood alertly in the control room waiting for a signal.  
  
"It's SG-1 Sir." Lt. Simmons said eventually.  
  
"Open the iris." Hammond ordered.  
  
"Yes Sir."  
  
Major Carter, Daniel Jackson and Teal'c stepped through the shimmering puddle onto the ramp. No O'Neill. Hell, what now? Hammond thought as he quickly made his way to the gate room.  
  
"Major Carter, report. Where's Colonel O'Neill?" He demanded, noting the shock and devastation on the faces of each team member.  
  
"We...we don't know Sir." She replied.  
  
"Don't know? What happened?" He retorted.  
  
"He... he disappeared Sir."  
  
"Disappeared?" Hammond asked.  
  
"O'Neill was by our side and then he was there no longer, GeneralHammond." Teal'c intervened.  
  
"Poof!" Daniel expanded, his arms opening in a gesture he thought self explanatory. "Although not literally in a puff of smoke. No... not..." He tailed off seeing the shaken and bemused expression on the General's face. He wasn't helping.  
  
"Asgard?" Hammond asked Carter.  
  
"I don't think so Sir." She replied, "He... he literally disappeared Sir. Teal'c is right. One minute he was there, the next gone. No lights, no visual effects, no puffs of smoke, no clues, Sir. Nothing."  
  
The General had a look of horror on his face and knew that, as O'Neill's second in command, Carter would no doubt blame herself.  
  
"So you have no idea where he is?"  
  
"No Sir." She looked uncomfortable, ashamed and confused, and hastily peered at her feet.  
  
Hammond was sure that they would never have left O'Neill if they had other options, and were angry with themselves for being forced to leave him behind. Goddammit, that man was more trouble than a hornet's nest. The team looked exhausted. They had probably spent hours trying to find something to give them a clue as to his whereabouts.  
  
"Major, you would not have left him if you'd any choice, I know that. If you had no clues, you did the right thing coming back. Report to the infirmary and we'll debrief further afterwards." Hammond gave a weary sigh. Now what the hell do we do, he thought?  
  
Coming back to consciousness he was relieved to find that the pain had gone and he could breath more easily. Oh, thank God! He tried to move and found he could twitch his fingers, then managed the whole hand. Risk opening my eyes. he asked himself? Nervously he made an effort to open the lids and found them co-operating. His eyes felt heavy, lashes gummed together and gritty. Someone was sand papering his eyeballs and lids. Despite that, he managed to pry them open. He was surrounded by unremitting greyness. Correction, a heavy mist or fog, that's what it is, he realised. So even with his eyes now open he could see nothing; was no closer to knowing where he was.  
  
Experimentally he tried to sit up. A wave of nausea and dizziness assailed him but he fought it off doggedly. However, he decided to wait a while before trying to stand. Just a little while, he told himself.  
  
'Are you worthy? Are you worthy?'  
  
He wondered who was saying that. Should he try to speak? As he considered further he thought the voices might be in his head. They echoed around him like whispers on the wind, but there was no wind. This was very spooky. Go figure!  
  
'Are you worthy? Are you worthy?'  
  
Definitely in his head. Go away! Leave me alone! He replied, but they were relentless.  
  
'Are you worthy? Are you worthy?'  
  
The words whipped around his brain, driving him to despair.  
  
Then he thought he saw a shape looming out of the greyness. What was that? It was menacing and gave him a sense of foreboding. The mist was starting to clear a little and he wasn't sure he wanted it to. Perhaps he was better not knowing. As the appearance of the shapes gathered momentum he thought they seemed familiar; maybe they weren't so threatening after all. Trees? Were they trees? He was in a forest then?  
  
Definitely a forest, he was even beginning to see colours; varying shades of green and brown. The mist was moving away more rapidly now and the words stopped abruptly. Silence. Total and utter silence. He could not decide if that was worse than the voices. Shivering with fear, he realised that the mist was not so much lifting, as thinning. The wisps were starting to surround him.  
  
"Fight it, my man, fight it." He said aloud to himself, trying to control his fear. It's unsettling to wake up nowhere, knowing nothing. He should be scared. Scared might be good, actually, get the old adrenaline pumping. His fear vanished abruptly as the wisps enfolded him and hit him with a tidal wave of pure pleasure. When he lay back in response to their seductive touch he heard a low moan escape his lips.  
  
Ecstasy! Wow that felt good. The wisps of mist were doing something to him, dancing around him, touching him, playing with him. His whole body tingled in expectation of a rapturous release; it was glorious.  
  
He was euphoric. Please, yes! He begged the mist; more, more. Oh God yes! This sure beat pain. Something inside was definitely building to a crescendo, in the pit of his stomach and then spreading throughout his body. He panted, trying to catch his breath. Hearing himself growl he knew it was nearly upon him. He was at the crest of the wave and wanted to ride it all the way, and then he plunged over, nearly drowning from the intensity. The thing that he most wanted and needed came and his body shuddered with the pleasure. Yes! He cried it out loud.  
  
Oh blessed release! Tingling everywhere, and engulfed by a feeling of relief, he was infused with happiness and deep satisfaction. Laughing, he thought this was not so bad and he could learn to live with it, would even welcome it. He wanted to beg the wisps for more but resisted that temptation. You can have too much of a good thing.  
  
Instead, once he had recovered his equilibrium and revelled in those glorious feelings, he decided to risk standing and took a look at his surroundings. Forest everywhere and no sign of which way he should go. Even if there was, he wouldn't know where he was going. He had the feeling there was something important to do but couldn't remember what. Dammit, he still couldn't even remember who he was. He started to feel frustrated; despite the awesome sense of joy he had experienced such a short time ago.  
  
The mist still clung to him and his frustration deepened. He could feel himself falling into a pit of despair. Noooooo! He had felt so good just now. Please don't do this to me, he begged. A depression overtook him with such force that he crumpled to the ground. Tears started to fall from his eyes and, despite his best efforts; he could do nothing to stop them. It was as if an external power was forcing him to this act without his consent, and he started to weep uncontrollably.  
  
'Are you worthy? Are you worthy?'  
  
They'd come back. The voices. Please... please give me some peace, he begged. But once again they were unrelenting. He could not stop crying, his whole body was wracked with sobs. Inconsolable for a long time, the sobs continued until he thought he could cry no more. Where was all this water coming from? Surely he didn't even contain this much.  
  
Eventually he thought no, I won't let them beat me. He had no clue who they might be but he would fight them anyway. Whoever they were must surely be an enemy. His stubbornness won through and he got himself back to his feet, trying to ignore the whispers and his own desolation. I have to do something positive, he thought. Having seen no obvious direction to follow he struck out randomly into the forest.  
  
His activity calmed him and he managed to fight the hopelessness and despondency. Get back! You are my enemy. I might not know who I am but I do know that. It made him feel slightly better that he knew something. Maybe he knew other things too. It gave him a glimmer of hope and it was enough to send the voices away.  
  
A circle. Why was he thinking of a circle? An image kept coming to his head as if trying to force him to remember it. In the fringes of his mind it was familiar but he could not grasp it. It was frustrating. Somehow, he knew it was important. He needed to find it. Where could he start?  
  
The forest seemed never ending and everywhere looked the same. He could not find any trees that looked individual enough to use as landmarks. For all he knew he was wandering around in circles. Climbing one of the trees to get some bearings turned out to be fruitless. The forest stretched as far as the eye could see; nothing broke the landscape.  
  
The sky was blue but he looked all around him and could see no sun. Nothing to guide him. No sun? Wasn't that a little odd? He wasn't totally sure. Maybe it was normal. Maybe he had imagined the existence of suns. He wasn't sure of anything. How could someone who didn't even know who they were be certain? He would just have to carry on and hope it got him somewhere, so he climbed back down again.  
  
Realising he was thirsty he decided to think about supplies. He seemed to have none. Wasn't it unusual for him not to carry something with him? How did he know that? It was a hunch but he couldn't trust it. He couldn't trust anything in this place. Questions - he had lots of them, but answers he lacked in abundance.  
  
Attached to his belt was a large, vicious looking knife. This could do some serious damage. He wondered whether he knew how to use it effectively and figured he probably did. In a pocket he found matches, but that was all. He seemed woefully ill equipped; it wasn't much to live on.  
  
Taking the knife in his hands, he tried twirling it round and found he was adept. It felt good and right to hold it, as if it belonged. Yep, that confirmed it; he definitely knew how to use one of these things. Aiming for a spot on a tree he balanced the knife with the eye of an expert, throwing a bulls eye without hesitation. Good. I have at least one skill that might prove useful, he thought with pride, and smiled to himself. I'll make it.  
  
He had to find some water, without which the making it option became kind of hard. Then he heard it. It sounded like flowing water and he followed the sound. This made him ponder the almost total lack of other sound. Shouldn't there be birds? This was a forest. Maybe forests didn't normally have birds either. His singular lack of certainty and knowledge perturbed him.  
  
Curious that water should appear just as the thought entered his mind, he suspected there was something very unique about this place - it was unreal, a figment, conjured by whoever or whatever kept him captive here. The voices in his head were his captors, vicious and taunting, inclined to both hurt and pleasure him at their whim.  
  
He felt pretty sure he must be a prisoner, but had no idea what he was being punished for. Maybe his loss of memory formed part of the punishment; a new born babe in an adult body. That was hell indeed. Admittedly, he was not new born as he could function on his own, walk, talk, climb trees, use a knife; he was fairly confident he could do a whole heap of other things too, and hoped they would come to him when the time was right. However, the metaphor seemed appropriate as he still remembered nothing of himself or his life before he had awoken on the forest floor.  
  
Believing his presence there a punishment gave him a small measure of comfort. He probably deserved whatever his captors wanted to dish out. If he deserved it, he could take whatever they gave and be grateful that it wasn't worse. Punishment ends sometimes doesn't it? He would stubbornly survive until they were finished with him. It was important that he not give up hope, or life. The former would fuel his determination to grasp at the latter, kicking and screaming if necessary.  
  
Another noise distracted him from the sound of the running water; a low growl. He stopped to look around and could see nothing moving. Cautiously, he moved on, his eyes and ears wide open, preparing for whatever might befall him now. He would be ready - to fight and defeat whatever it was.  
  
The growl got closer and he could hear the rustle of the undergrowth as whatever it was closed on it's goal. Figuring its goal was him, he took the knife in his hand again, ready to defend himself from all comers.  
  
Then it appeared close by, watching it's prey with black and dangerous eyes. It was a large cat of some kind, wild and strong. He could see it's tensed muscles and admired it's sleek lines and unwavering gaze. He returned that gaze so that his own dark eyes met those of his potential foe. He wanted it to know he was just as dangerous as it was. You won't take me without a fight, those eyes said, you risk much to threaten me. He was relieved to have an enemy that he could see, instead of the mist that was so nebulous, but equally hazardous.  
  
The large cat, which he could not identify, stood ready to pounce on it's prey. He tasted his fear of the creature, knowing that this animal could kill him with a swipe of it's sharp claws or bite from it's powerful teeth and jaws. The cat stared, sensing menace from it's prey, but hungry enough to chance it's luck.  
  
He stood perfectly still while he watched it appraise him, tensing his own muscles in preparation for the attack he knew to be inevitable. Fight or flight? His fear wanted him to take flight, run as fast as he could away from this creature. To do that courted almost certain death in it's deadly paws. The adrenaline pumping through his body kept him there, facing his fear and ready to fight for life.  
  
Especially alert, he saw it's slight movement, just before it pounced, and this is what saved him. The creature was upon him but his knife struck the deadly blow, although not before it's large claws had ripped at his jacket at the skin beneath. He felt the skin on his chest tear open, a painful wound which sent blood spattering both himself and his foe. The body of his enemy sagged on top of him as it took it's final breath, the knife deep in it's heart, it's full weight crushing him painfully beneath it.  
  
The animal's blood mixed with his own. He was surrounded and covered by the red stuff of life and knew not how much of it was his or the big cat's. Momentarily he was frozen beneath it's body as it's life force flowed over him, the sickly sweet smell both nauseating and exhilarating at once. His victory gave him the strength to push the heavy creature off him, saddened that he had needed to kill the graceful beast so that he could live.  
  
He lay for a short while to gather more strength, knowing that he had to deal with his own injury. He needed that water more than ever, to drink, to clean. Without it he was a dead man. The wound in his chest hurt like crazy but he'd suffered worse at the hands of his tormentors. If he could survive the pain that the mist had visited upon him, surely he could survive this. Not if he didn't stop himself bleeding to death.  
  
That thought gave him the strength to sit and look at himself. However, with so much blood, it was hard to see how bad his injury was. So he got up and stumbled weakly towards the sound of water again. He was alive, that was all that counted right now. He just had to stay that way.  
  
When he reached the stream, it looked clear and inviting. Should he drink from it? For some reason it nagged him that he was reluctant. Did he have reason to fear drinking from it? Hell! It was this or die of thirst in the end. So he knelt and drank. It tasted good, and he realised this was the first time he had tasted anything at all. The water started to quench his thirst. He hadn't realised how much he had needed to drink. Maybe this would help to clear his mind.  
  
Then he removed his jacket and T-shirt, which was badly torn from the clawing, and washed his chest, tingeing the water pink until it dissipated into the running stream. It wasn't as bad as it had seemed, the brute strength of the animal diluted by his own defence and counter-attack. His will had saved him, along with the knife he had used so skilfully in his short struggle with the beast.  
  
He had no illusions that he had won the fight, but rather, the graceful cat had lost. He figured it would never have attacked if it hadn't been starving, and it was no doubt weakened by it's lack of food. He'd been fortunate; it hadn't.  
  
The blood still seeped from his wound, but no longer flowed freely. It seemed relatively superficial, but if it weren't he had no sensible means to staunch it. Eyeing the T-shirt, he wondered whether it would make a decent bandage but the wound ran the whole length of his chest, fortuitously not reaching the softer and more dangerous areas beneath his protective breast plate and rib cage. If he lay here a while he could outwait it, allow it to stop bleeding before he moved on. Lucky son of a bitch, you should be dead, he told himself.  
  
Later, when he had recovered sufficiently to consider moving once again, he wished he had some means to carry the water. He decided to sit for a while and keep drinking to replenish his body's needs. He must have shed a whole lot of water when his captors forced him to tears earlier. Those bastards had made him do that. he'd show them!  
  
He knew he shouldn't let himself get dehydrated, especially when he'd suffered blood loss, but wasn't entirely sure how he knew anything about that. At least it was something else he knew. Another little piece of certainty in his wholly uncertain world.  
  
So he relaxed, letting his strength come back to him bit by bit. As he recovered he took his clothing to the shallow waters, trying to rid them of the blood that had soaked them. These were stains he would never remove, stains of both life and death; perhaps it was fitting if he couldn't wash it all out. Nevertheless, he did his best, eradicating what he could of the excess blood and diluting the cloying stench that pervaded. Then he lay to rest again as his clothing dried in the warmth of the day.  
  
Everything else could wait. He could better continue his journey fully rested. He just wished he knew where that journey was taking him, what he was aiming for. Survival, life, that was more than sufficient purpose for now, he told himself, decisively, all fear gone for now and replaced by stubborn resolve.  
  
The SGC:  
  
The three remaining members of SG-1 stood in front of the outgoing wormhole, alongside SG-9. Hammond had agreed they should return to the planet to search for clues to O'Neill's whereabouts, this time with help. They'd sent a UAV, which had found very little, certainly no signs of life, but it indicated some ruins approximately 9 klicks from the gate, which was further than they had got before their CO's sudden disappearance had stopped their exploration.  
  
Daniel persuaded the General that they might find clues at those ruins. Maybe knowledge of the civilisations that had inhabited this planet would help them determine where O'Neill might have gone. The additional pairs of eyes accompanying them might spot some little thing, anything, that could help them resolve the puzzle of Jack's disappearance.  
  
The three were damned if they were going to helplessly sit on their hands back at base while O'Neill suffered God only knows what at the hands of his mysterious captors. Action, they had to take action; they had to find him and bring him home to them. His disappearance was unacceptable to all three and they would not rest until he was found.  
  
Hammond knew this about them but also realised that he could not spend resources on this search forever, with no reward. He was uncertain of what risks his people took by going back, and feared he might lose more of them before this mystery was resolved - if it was ever resolved. He didn't like to think of that and was more than willing to let them try for now. While there were unexplored avenues he would not give up on his favoured Colonel either.  
  
The unofficial motto of the SGC was never leave anyone behind, an ethic instilled by Hammond's own quiet determination, and O'Neill's often more noisy and frequently voiced one. He knew O'Neill well enough to understand that the man would never give up while breath still remained in his body. That thought had often given Hammond strength in times of adversity.  
  
This was not the first time that O'Neill had been taken from them, and probably not the last. The man had a knack of surviving against all odds, and this he had passed onto his team. It comforted Hammond to know that, if he was still alive, Jack would be fighting every inch of the way, desperately trying to find his way home again. He would not let O'Neill down if he could avoid it.  
  
So he would risk the lives of his people, carry on using whatever resources he could. Only when the risk outweighed the prize would Hammond give up, as he had reluctantly done in the past, only to be confounded by Jack's obstinate resolve yet again.  
  
When he woke he couldn't recall having felt tired. Had it been the water that made him sleep? What water? He was no longer by a stream; no longer in a forest. Had he ever been there? He couldn't be sure. It unsettled him as he believed he was normally much more certain of things than this. However, he couldn't be sure of that either.  
  
Jack! That was a name wasn't it? Was it his name? He had no idea whether it was or not; it had just entered his mind unbidden, like the circle. Maybe it was the name of a friend. Although he forlornly had to admit that it didn't seem like he had any of those in this desolate place. He wondered about that and was overwhelmed by loneliness.  
  
There were few trees here. It was rugged heath land and he could see nothing but heather and a sparse growth of grasses and bushes wherever he looked. The depressing place enhanced his isolation, and deep, dark feelings of loneliness and sadness invaded him once more. He was lost and friendless with no obvious means of survival in this bleak landscape.  
  
As if his misery was not enough, a searing agony shot through him like a bolt of lightening. He screamed, and it shattered the silence. Contorting with the torment, he could feel the sweat all over his body, sending shivers through him which merely added to his woes. He was shaking so much that he was surprised his body didn't just fall apart from it. Stop, please stop!  
  
'Are you worthy? Are you worthy?'  
  
Nooooooo! Not again. Anything but this. The words echoed through his mind once more, over and over. He couldn't think straight; they were overpowering and increasingly loud and invasive. They scared him as their appearance seemed to bring him great pain, and anguish. He could not control it, or his emotions, when they attacked, and hated that powerlessness.  
  
'Are you worthy? Are you worthy?'  
  
As he writhed under the control of his captors, flashes of a past life came to mind. He was strapped to a chair, wires attached to his naked body and his tormentors throwing a switch that sent an electric current of pure agony through his body. Acid burned holes in his clothing and skin, eating into his insides, killing him. The stench of death, urine and vacated bowls. The dread of a door opening and someone coming to take him to his torturers. It all jumbled up inside his head and he didn't know whether it had been real. Was this what his life had been?  
  
He gripped his head, which felt it was about to explode with the pain, his ear drums seemingly on the verge of bursting from the decibel levels. Should he pretend to give up, make them think he bowed to their will? Living to fight another day seemed like the sensible option. Please, please, please stop, he begged, I'll do anything.  
  
Abruptly it ceased. He wondered what he had promised to do, couldn't remember anything specific and hoped he remembered so the agony would not come back. He lay still for a while, trying to recover himself. The memories of the torture were almost as bad as the real thing and his nerve endings felt on edge as if anticipating a further onslaught.  
  
He was getting confused, unable to tell if this was really happening to him or just a figment, as he suspected. Whatever the truth, he could not deny that the pain felt real, and he could probably die in this place. He could not recall nightmares being this vivid and real, but what did he know? Forcing himself to think about something else he made the memories recede.  
  
I wonder what I look like, he thought. I wish I'd looked at my reflection in the water while I had the chance. He looked at his hands to give him a clue as to how old he might be and had no idea. His hands looked mature; no kid or teenager then, not even particularly young.  
  
Pulling some hair from his head he studied it. Grey. An old man then? Not that old, maybe. Hadn't he climbed a tree earlier? Forty? Fifty? More? He grasped for clues, partly stripping himself hurriedly to look at his body for other evidence. Grey hair on the chest; muscular though and looking pretty fit. It wasn't much help. He could be old and work out a lot. He finally settled on fifty or so. It was as good a guess as any.  
  
Colonel. He thought the word should be familiar but could not work out what it meant. It might as well have been a foreign language. Maybe it was. Colonel? What the hell was that and why had his mind suddenly thrust it at him? It was trying to send him a message but he couldn't understand it's purpose. Biting back tears of frustration he wondered why 'they' put that in his head but did not tell him what it meant? Once again he knew it was important, but not why.  
  
A feeling of total peace suddenly came over him and he was surprised. Why? Had he had a revelation they, whoever they were, wanted him to have? Was it something to do with the word Colonel?  
  
Once more his body was suffused with euphoria. It was that wonderful feeling again. Oh, yes please! Was this meant as some form of encouragement or reward? If so, he wished he could remember more. Oh boy, this felt so good. A warmth inside was building rapidly, quickly becoming a fire that needed to be quenched and he groaned with the pleasure.  
  
The wisps of mist whipped around him, quickening their pace. Wow! No, no not so quickly, please, he begged, wanting this rapture to last. They slowed to meet his demands and he became intoxicated with delight. He could almost hear them. Not saying 'are you worthy?' this time, but something else. He did not know what and neither did he care as he was totally enthralled. This was seventh heaven!  
  
Was there a way to stop himself reaching that glorious peak? He was torn between wanting it to last and the total elation and gratification that would come from that torturous release. He wanted and craved it while, simultaneously, relishing the fever that grew within him at the whisper of the wisps. Whisper to me more, more, he pleaded fervently.  
  
More flashes, good things this time. A woman with blonde hair, her perfume exhilarating as they copulated, naked and exposed, on a large double bed. A passionate kiss in the moonlight with a young, dark haired girl, eager to please and allowing so much more than he had expected. A blonde again, astride his body, an exultant and triumphant screech coming from her mouth as he also cried aloud with pleasure. The same blonde? A name? Sam? No, Sarah; he was pretty sure of that, whoever she was.  
  
The flashes ceased as the needs of his body dictated his full participation. He didn't know how long the rapture lasted but he would reach the precipice soon and tumble over into the chasm. Oh joy! He could no longer stop himself, no longer wished to. His breath quickened and his moans kept pace with it. Suddenly he reached the top and toppled.  
  
Oh glory be! It was exquisite; so much more than anything he had experienced with the blonde or brunette of his memory. This was totally different and truly awesome.  
  
As he lay in his paradise he realised that if this should happen too often he would never get anywhere; it was sapping his strength. He must resist its embrace next time it seduced him.  
  
Getting up at last, he again looked for a sign of which direction to take and found none. The sky was no longer blue, but dull and murky. There was nothing but sparse vegetation to relieve the dreary landscape. He'd preferred the forest, however unrelenting it had seemed. This place was forbidding and gloomy. Once again he set off in a random direction.  
  
Hunger forced him to look around for a likely source of food. There appeared to be none. He patted his pockets again knowing they were empty, then found something he was sure had not been there previously - an energy bar. Weirdly convenient. Was this a dream? If it was it was a midsummer night's one with him firmly cast in the role of Bottom. He chuckled at that thought. He could remember Shakespeare but not his own name?  
  
"Don't poke your irony out Jack." He muttered aloud to himself.  
  
Jack? He had called himself Jack. Okay, now he was getting somewhere. The name must belong to him, right? You don't call yourself by someone else's name; that would be stupid. Good, Jack it is then. A nice solid sounding name. He wondered if he looked like a Jack.  
  
He eyed the energy bar suspiciously. Surely this was too real to be a dream, even one brought on by the fairy folk - despite an energy bar that seemed to appear like magic. Don't look a gift horse in the mouth old man, he told himself, you need sustenance. Unwrapping it, he ate slowly, savouring its sweet taste. Mmmmm! That was good.  
  
Feeling much refreshed he walked, and walked, and then walked some more. He was still getting nowhere. Maybe he wasn't meant to. Then what was his purpose? Why was he here? There must be a logical explanation but he could think of none, except his conclusion that he was being punished. So be it. But if that was so, why those glorious feelings of pleasure? It was a puzzle.  
  
O'Neill. Once again the word entered his head unbidden. O'Neill? What was that? It sounded like a name. He thought about it. Jack O'Neill had a ring of familiarity. Colonel Jack O'Neill? Yes, much better. A name, his name. He was fairly convinced it was his name and was proud of himself for remembering it at last. Give yourself a pat on the back O'Neill, he thought.  
  
The remembrance did nothing to help. A name is only a name. Who is Colonel Jack O'Neill? He didn't know.  
  
He felt the soft whisper of paradise, like waves lapping gently at his feet. Titania! Perhaps she's come to lay him on her bed of flowers and command her troupe to serve his whim. Having got Midsummer Night's Dream on his mind he couldn't seem to shift it. A love potion was working its way to his soul and he would be lost forever.  
  
He told himself that he should not associate these feelings with a woman, even a fairy from a play; he would lose himself to it. Continue to think of it as...well... it, Jack, he lectured. No... yes... don't! He tried to resist it's call as it teased him, but it would not loosen its grasp.  
  
Instead it whipped around him again, this time like slender tendrils brushing his skin, urging him on to enjoyment. No! Again he tried to pull himself away from it but was unable to prevent it's caress. The mist swirled gently, taunting him seductively. It dared him to fight but he was already helpless in it's embrace.  
  
He gasped with joy as it inspired his body to react without his conscious thought. Once more he writhed in his bliss. This time the mist was deliberately taking its time, as if in slow motion. It was unbearable whilst still marvellous. Agony and ecstasy, two sides of the same coin.  
  
Then the real torment started and he almost welcomed it. His head throbbed, his throat was sore. It moved down his body, ravaging him in its wake; his neck, shoulders, arms, chest. He thought his heart would stop with the pain. His stomach, his groin. Christ! The mist continued to entrance him, transporting him to delight while still merciless in it's exquisite agony. He savoured and revelled in it. The hell gave way to total paradise once more and he cried aloud in his exaltation.  
  
It took him to the brink, then taunted him once more by stopping. No! Don't stop. It wanted him to beg, so he did. Please, please! He could feel the sweat pouring from him, dampening his clothes as he struggled in his sweet torment. I beg you; make love to me, he screamed aloud. But it left him bereft and unfulfilled.  
  
The suffering started again moments later. No ecstasy, merely agony. A great deal of it. This time he was screaming at his ordeal, more sweat joining the other to soak him thoroughly. He passed out... and woke by a large lake. The scenery was beautiful and reminded him of... something... somewhere. Minnesota sprang into his mind.  
  
What was Minnesota? A place? A person? He didn't know and it frustrated him. He was still damp from the sweat although the pain had subsided. He went to the lakeside and tried the water. It seemed okay so he drank.  
  
Quickly stripping off his clothes, he splashed into the water to bathe. It was cold but refreshing. He would stay in here a while. He swam and dived under the surface, rubbing at his body and hair to clean it as much as possible. Then he lay back and floated, allowing himself to drift.  
  
There was no logic to the pain, or the pleasure. He had thought the ecstasy was a prize for remembering something he needed to recall, for them. He had remembered his name and believed he was being rewarded when his body had been suffused with joy and elation. However, it had turned on him, taunting with equal parts pain and pleasure, and then left him to suffer an almost unendurable torture until he'd passed out.  
  
Once again he had recalled fleeting memories. Someone held their hand up to him and he fell to his knees as the light from the hand grabbed at his pain centres and invaded his brain. He was pinned to a wall, a long piece of metal through his shoulder; unbearable heat, and intolerable pain, both seemingly unending. He was dying, a virus attacking his body, a high fever which burned him up, covered in sweat, nauseous and unable to breath properly.  
  
The mist joined him once again as he lay there, and it took him in its domineering grip, erasing those torments from his mind in an instant. He smiled rapturously. It had never finished what it had started before and he wished for it to now, not even attempting to resist.  
  
Once again it seduced him slowly, tickling and teasing as its tendrils gently caressed. Yes, take me, possess me, he whispered back to it's song of love. I want this; I want this forever. It danced around him, cavorting and exuberant. He danced right along with it, returning it's enthusiasm. It whipped him up to a frenzy and he bit his bottom lip with desire and longing. I'm yours, yes. I love only you, I want only you, forever. He could feel its pleasure at his words as it licked at him. Yes, Titania, my love I'll be here always. Please take me, own me, do with me what you will. I am utterly yours. He surrendered himself to it totally and it signalled it's joy and brought him his own.  
  
It was better than before, a mutual passion that refused to be sated for an age. He hadn't believed it could be any better. Each nerve of his body sang it's pleasure and begged for liberation; a heavenly rhapsody. He heard it whisper, 'yes Jack you are mine forever' and whispered back 'yes my love, yes, oh yes!' He was so close to that perfection, the pinnacle of his goal. Yes! Take me, have me, hold me, love me, kill me.  
  
The mist sighed into his ear and he reached to touch, embracing it. Oh God, don't stop, please don't stop. He could hear his breath rasping and ragged as it kissed him gently. Take me, own me, possess me, he said again. I want you, I need you, I love you. Yes! They cried in unison and he shook and shuddered with his unshackling from it's grasp.  
  
Immediately, he missed it's touch and the hold it had on him and reached for it, wanting. Don't go. Please don't leave. But his pleas went unanswered as he was left alone once more.  
  
TBC in Part 2: Titania... 


	2. What Fools These Mortals Be Chapter 2: T...

Title: What Fools These Mortals Be Part 2: Titania

Author: Su Freund

Email: 

Website: 

Status: Complete

Category: Angst, Drama (and Jack whumping)

Pairings: None

Spoilers: Message in a Bottle, Threshold, Meridian, Abyss

Season: First half of 7

Sequel/Series Info: None

Rating: PG-13

Content Warnings: Contains scenes that might be disturbing to some readers. Allusions to torture and what might be interpreted as activity of a sexual nature. Minor use of bad language.

Summary: While the rest of SG-1 desperately search for clues to their missing leader's whereabouts, O'Neill remains a solitary and tortured prisoner of unknown, strange, and incomprehensible forces with no real memory of who or what he is

Disclaimer: Stargate SG-1 and its characters are the property of Stargate (II) Productions, Showtime/Viacom, MGM/UA, Double Secret Productions, and Gekko Productions. This story is for entertainment purposes only and no money exchanged hands. No copyright infringement is intended. The original characters, situations, and story are the property of the author. This story may not be posted elsewhere without the consent of the author. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

Copyright © 2004 Su Freund

File Size: 54 KB

Archive: My site, Jackfic yes, SJD yes, Gateworld, FanFiction Net

Author's Note:

1. Thanks to William Shakespeare for the title, and the use of some of his words throughout. This is not a sequel to 'Hell is Murky' but could be considered as the 2nd of a 'Shakespeare Series' of stand alone fics.

2. Thanks also to AnnieB for the use of her wonderful illustration of Jack for this fic. She has done such a good job with the original screen cap of Jack. To see this lovely book cover created from her work by Fulinn28 go here. 

Her original art can be found in the Various Creators gallery on the site.

3. And last, but certainly far from least, thanks to Bonnie for her beta of this fic. Her comments on my original draft version led to many radical changes which have definitely improved it for the better.

**What Fools These Mortals Be Part 2: Titania**

SG-1 retraced the steps they had taken with O'Neill, which happily led them towards the ruins Daniel hoped might help them. Progress was slow. They scoured the area as they walked, the two accompanying members of SG-9 team being the additional pairs of eyes they hoped might help them meet their goal; clues to the Colonel's location. The remaining two from SG-9 waited patiently, guarding the gate and their retreat from danger.

They had found nothing on their way to the ruins and Daniel was hopeful that they would find something there. Carter was less optimistic that it would help but said nothing of her fears, keeping her own counsel just as the Colonel might in this situation. Morale was important, she had to remain positive.

Her CO always seemed to have faith that they would prevail; if he didn't have the answers to their salvation, someone else on his team would. He never doubted it and was sorely disappointed when his belief was shaken. She felt sure that inside he must been as full of doubt and fear as the rest of them; he was only human after all, even if he sometimes appeared to be so much more than that.

His determination, encouragement and faith had probably saved them many times over. Even his bad moods acted as a spur, if only to spite him and prove him wrong. She wondered if he used that ploy deliberately sometimes, confident that he was much more that he tried to make himself appear; cunning and devious perhaps, but quite brilliant. He would be the last person to acknowledge that and many were fooled by the façade he maintained.

While deriding his own intelligence, he bolstered that of his team mates and appeared reliant upon it, meanwhile his brain worked overtime, thinking his way out, looking for a weakness to exploit to their advantage. It was also effective camouflage against their enemies, making them over confident and prone to the error he awaited; the little chink in the armour that he could widen into a gaping hole, using their arrogance against them. He was not a man one should underestimate. That was a lesson she'd learned early.

Carter admired that about him, respected it more than he would ever know or was likely to find out. If she ever became half the leader he was she would be very proud. And if she did, it would be due to what he'd taught her and she would be forever in his debt; as if she wasn't already.

Daniel studied the ruins and was delighted when he found writings, exploring them curiously as if he should be familiar with the language, and making a pictorial record with the video camera as he worked.

"Well Daniel, how long?" Carter asked, impatiently

"Have you any idea how much you sound like Jack sometimes, Sam?" He retorted, his ire at her impatience spoken in his tone.

Sam threw him a nasty look and he wondered why people thought he could work miracles. This was an alien language he was looking at here. Why didn't they ever give him a break? Didn't Sam understand he was just as worried about Jack's welfare as she was?

"Come on Daniel, times a wasting."

"Sam, I'm doing my best, ok? More haste less speed and all that." He shrugged.

"Huh, don't say it, it'll take as long as it takes, right?"

"Scissors, paper...?" He quipped, deliberately reminding her of the often child like behaviour of their missing team mate, and they both laughed, easing the tension. The two members of SG-9 looked puzzled, not understanding the exchange, while Teal'c understood every word but remained stone faced.

"MajorCarter is correct, DanielJackson," he contributed, "time is indeed pressing. O'Neill eludes our grasp and the longer this remains true, the less likely it is we will find him again."

"We'll find him Teal'c, we have to." Carter replied, with more confidence than she felt.

"Furlings." Daniel said.

"What?" Carter asked.

"The language; it's Furling."

"This was a Furling planet?"

"I guess so."

"So where does that get us?" She enquired.

"Ummm... precisely nowhere right now, but it might. It's something, isn't it?" He said hopefully.

"Yes Daniel. It's something alright. Maybe the Furlings took him."

"But they aren't here anymore."

"Maybe they are still here. We know nothing about them Daniel. We've seen stranger things. The ascended are incorporeal, you know that more than most, " She smiled, pleased that Daniel was with them once more and actively on their side, "perhaps the Furlings are too?"

This was turning into the sort of exchange that got their creative juices flowing and finding answers. That pleased Carter, happy while they were still able to do something constructive in seeking their CO.

O'Neill tried to suppress his despondency, knowing that they were bringing that gloom down on him and it was not self inflicted. It was harder than he hoped. He seemed trapped in thoughts of her embrace, the loss of her exquisite company.

Standing to look around, he idly wondered how much time had passed. It was impossible to tell and he didn't really care. He would live only for the moment that his love came to him again, whether she bring him agony or ecstasy; whatever she chose. He was hers to obey. He existed for her whim and he gloried in it.

At least he knew why he was here now. To serve her, worship her, love her. He suddenly felt deliriously happy that this was so. A good reason for existence. He could ask for nothing better. What he had to do was important; be hers and only hers. Titania! Given the absence of an alternative, calling her that seemed as logical as anything. He still wondered about the big circle, though, and its significance.

Realising he had the opportunity to see himself he thought to look into the lake but was fearful of what he might find.

"What do you see? What? Do you see an ass' head of your own, do you?" He said aloud, quoting from the play that kept springing to his mind; Bottom's words.

If he was to be Bottom to the wonderful Titania he guessed he ought to know about it, so he looked. This was him? His grey hair was wet so he could not see its true colour. He studied the face. It looked well worn and rugged. He thought his guess at 50 or so was probably accurate and wondered whether he was handsome, figuring he wasn't too bad looking.

He had decent eyes; dark chocolate brown. His cheekbones were chiselled, which he thought seemed ok. Lines were etched into his face showing both age and experience. That was fine too because it was as it should be. He was curious as to whether his lips were sensuous and pouted them. What the hell, Titania obviously thought so and that was all that mattered; she wanted him.

He realised he had a haunted look. Why? He was happy. He could stay here forever. Is that what he wanted? He began to question it. At one point he'd believed there was something important to do. Surely he must serve a greater purpose. Was there a greater purpose than pleasing her? He had wanted to find the circle, knowing it was also important. Had he given up? Had she entrapped him?

Rising from the water, he sat on the bank, feeling chilly. A fire, he'd make a fire. Despite his wetness he put on his clothes figuring he shouldn't be wandering around naked. Although he seemed to be totally alone, one should be prepared. Being naked didn't seem prepared for anything much.

He wandered into the surrounding woodland to find suitable wood to fuel the fire, and something to use as tinder and kindling. How the hell did he know what he was looking for? What the heck O'Neill, just accept that you know and get on with it.

He had a few matches but, if he was here long enough, would have to find an alternative when they ran out. So he decided to keep an eye out for something suitable to make a fire-plow, unless he was lucky enough to find some flint. He might be able to get a spark from his knife. A fire-plow was a lot of hard work; rubbing a hardwood shaft against a softer wood base. It was kind of like rubbing two sticks together but more sophisticated, and it worked; after a lot of hard effort.

While he searched for the wood he thought about other things he might need to survive out here. Perhaps he should take advantage of the wood and collect some choice pieces while he could, plus something to carry it with, or in. What if he woke up tomorrow and he was somewhere else? He had a knife, always useful, and pretty sharp and lethal too, he'd determined. Bow and arrows? Spear for fishing? Or maybe some sort of line, make some hooks? That wouldn't do him much good if he ended up in a desert tomorrow.

Once more he wished he had something to carry water in, the fundamental of any survival kit, and hoped he might find something that inspired him as he looked around. He kept thinking he should have a gun but wondered why he would carry one of those day to day? What had he done before he came here? How did he know all this stuff? He hated that he had more questions than answers.

"Well if it's Furlings it can't be that bad right?" Daniel posited, "they were allied with the Asgard."

"This means nothing DanielJackson," Teal'c responded, "because we know nothing of them now. Why are they no longer allied? Perhaps they were expelled from the alliance because they turned to the dark side."

"Dark side?" Daniel retorted, "this isn't Star Wars Teal'c."

"That you choose to demean my argument does not make it any less valid."

"I wasn't trying to demean your argument Teal'c..." He got no chance to finish as Carter snapped at them.

"For Christ's sake stop arguing you two. Until we know otherwise, we assume the Colonel is in danger. Alright?"

That intervention checked both men into silence as they could not help but acknowledge the truth of it. Teal'c literally bowed to her common sense and Daniel looked shamefaced.

"I'm sorry Sam. Of course, you're right. None of us will be happy until we have him safely home with us."

"Right!" She said, satisfied, "So what do we do with this information?

Both men looked perplexed, unable to find an adequate answer.

His thoughts turned to Titania and he started to tremble. He wanted her. Come to me my love, he whispered to the breeze, but there was no response. She was his only friend and solace from woe, and he craved what she could provoke in him. He firmly believed that it was like nothing he had experienced before, although he had no firm memory that could confirm or deny those thoughts.

Was she here lurking in the wood, watching him? The notion thrilled him and he looked around hoping to see... something.

"There sleeps Titania some time of the night, lull'd in these flowers with dances and delight," he quoted aloud, half expecting to come across Titania asleep in her bower behind every tree, her entourage watching over her.

The prospect of her touch made his body quiver with anticipation and he tried to turn his mind away from his desperate longing by concentrating in the task at hand. Come to me. Want you, need you. No, no, no! Struggling within himself for the will to control it, he won a brief respite.

After a while he returned to the clearing by the lake and lay down his haul of wood. He would need more but this was sufficient for his immediate purposes. This place was exposed and he figured he would have to find some proper shelter soon, if it existed. He needed a better means to protect and defend himself but he was not sure it was worth it. If he fell asleep he could wake up anywhere. Fearing what would become of him if he slept, he considered trying to stay awake, but knew it would send him insane in time. Of course, his logic told him that he was already insane and that, even if he wasn't, she would break him eventually.

Efficiently he built a fire and lit it. His stomach rebelled against it's emptiness and he felt light headed at his lack of proper nourishment. How long had he been here, and since he had eaten? Apart from the energy bar he had no recollection of food ever having crossed his lips, but he didn't have memory of anything much. Loneliness overcame him, along with a feeling of powerlessness and gloom. He tried to push it away but it sapped his already depleted strength.

'Are you worthy? Are you worthy?'

No, no, no, please! He begged, whimpering pathetically. The knot of fear within him grew and tears of anguish washed his cheeks once more. He had no control and that prospect was more terrifying than anything.

'Are you worthy? Are you worthy?'

The sobbing was forlorn, taking control of his body and convulsing and contorting him. There was nothing else. Torture, depression, tears. Was this his life, all it was? Was he condemned to eternal loss and loneliness, depression and bitterness? That sunk him still further. His hunger tried to fight it, force him into action, but it was useless. He was firmly in the grip of blackness and despair.

Teal'c, Carter, Daniel. The names popped into his head but meant nothing. He tried to grasp them as if they might rescue him from this place, pull him away from the dark abyss. But he couldn't hold onto them and sank still further into the dark and lonely place that was inundating his senses.

"God help me!" he cried through the tears, "Someone please help me!" He knew he couldn't live like this and considered walking into the lake, taking his knife and slitting his wrists open, or running it over his own throat. A quick end, not this torture. He found himself getting up to do it.

No, no! Fight this! I don't really want to die, please don't make me die, he pleaded. Where was his love when he needed her? My darling, please help me.

He tried to make himself angry, to battle against his foe. They were forcing these tears from him, deliberately manipulating his depression. He was uncertain whether he truly did anything of his own volition anymore, but he had to hold that hope, the possibility that he could win in the end, if he was determined enough.

He started to curse himself for his weakness. He had let her distract him from his main goal, getting home, wherever that was. He must be stronger and resist both the torture visited upon him and the ecstasy of her embrace. So he suppressed his despondency with total ruthlessness andfelt the depression start to lift. However, it left him drained, his muscles aching from the sobbing. He was filled with nothingness.

Realising that the fire was dying down he mechanically put more wood on it. The flames started to flicker and dance, thawing his frost. It was still light and he continued to be hungry. He had to take action; relieve that gnawing ache in his stomach that told him it was way too empty. His actions required no thought and like an automaton he picked up the wood he had chosen to make into a spear and took his knife to shape it thus. It was as if someone else was completing these tasks, not him. He was an empty shell, a husk.

Wading into the clear water, he stood patient and still, waiting for the fish to get used to his presence. They swarmed around him invitingly. The spear was effective, and his aim was true, although he could hardly recall making the movements that impaled the fish onto his makeshift weapon. Careless that he was wet again, fully clothed this time, he returned to the fire and prepared, then cooked, the fish, salivating at its smell as its flesh was engulfed by the flames. He almost couldn't wait for it to be cooked but was vaguely aware that half cooked fish might not be good for him.

It was worth the wait, tasted excellent, and he certainly needed the food. The skin was burned but the inside tender and moist and he felt replete and contented. The fire had warmed him for a while but the chill was starting to bite again. He thought once more about finding some form of shelter for the night but was weary. Adding fuel to the fire he watched the flames dance a graceful ballet, and the pictures they brought to his mind.

Thoughts of Teal'c come to him. Did he really know someone with a gold tattoo on his head or was it a fancy? Then Carter and Daniel Jackson, the blonde short hair of one, the glasses of the other. Faces, he could remember their faces, but they still meant nothing to him. He couldn't connect them in his mind to anything else. There was nothing else to connect them to, although the large circle continued to haunt him. It had writing on it but he didn't understand what it meant and he wondered if these three people he imagined were in some way connected to it.

The voices woke him up.

'Are you worthy? Are you worthy?'

How the hell should I know? He shouted mentally, then aloud, standing to 'face' them.

"For crying out loud, I don't know! Don't ask me! I don't even know who I am!"

Yes I do; I'm Colonel Jack O'Neill, leader of SG-1, he thought. Only trouble is, I can't recall what SG-1 is. But I'm getting there. It must have something to do with Teal'c, Carter and Daniel, right? Were they collectively SG-1? Yeah, that was it, a team called SG-1. He led them. Led them doing what? Garbage collection? G could stand for garbage, right? Seattle Garbage Collection 1? SGC? He laughed at the notion but for all he knew he was right on the money.

'Are you worthy? Are you worthy?'

A searing pain burst through his head and he fell to his knees. Another burst of agony hit and he gripped his head. Christ! What are you punishing me for? What have I done wrong? Don't you love me anymore? A soft caress across his face told him that she was there, but the torment continued unabated. His brain was on fire, a lump of molten rock in his head. Charred and totally useless. Lightening bolts flashed across his eyes, or that is how they appeared. As they flashed they sharpened the anguish still further. There was no enjoyment in this, no rapture. Stop! Please help me my love, he prayed, but she didn't.

He was going to die, he knew it for sure. His brain couldn't take any more of this. It would explode inside his head, which sounded nasty, but quick. Please let it be quick and let it be now. Please! I'll do anything, anything you want. Again, at his promise, it stopped, but he was no surer about what he had promised this time than he had been before.

He lay short of breath trying to recover from the assault. Almost immediately it was followed by another. This time it was his stomach. He curled up, clutching that part of him but it was not going to help. Nothing was going to help.

'Are you worthy? Are you worthy?'

The sound was deafening, the attack on his ears unbearable. He thought his eardrums would shatter and raised his hands to cover them but, as the noise was inside his head, this did nothing except make them echo more loudly.

At that moment the heavens opened and it started to rain. It came down fast and heavy, soaking Jack within seconds. Then he heard thunder, saw lightening. Real lightening this time. His physical torment was still relentless and he could hardly move; was totally defenceless. The raging winds whipped hard against him, buffeting his body with water. He couldn't even hear himself screaming above the noise. Why is this happening to me? Has my life always been like this? No, SG-1; he was sure they were real. Positive.

He lay helpless under the thunderous malevolence of the skies. The rain was unremitting, it's sharp drops like daggers on his skin, flaying him alive. This was no ordinary rain. It felt like acid burning at his skin tearing at his body and clothing alike. It would leave nothing behind but his skeletal remains. Colonel Jack O'Neill would no longer exist in this world, or any other.

He tried curling up in a ball to protect himself but its unrelenting violence seared into him. The lightening cracked, it's sound assaulting his ears. He tasted blood and dared to open his eyes, putting his hand to his mouth. Definitely blood, he could see it seep through his skin, was covered by it. He lay in a red tinged pool of mud - soil, rain and blood.

'Oh spite, oh hell!'

The words appeared in his head and he realised that they too were from Midsummer Night's Dream and laughed somewhat hysterically at this thought. Why that play? It was a comedy for crying out loud! What he was going through now? This was a tragedy. He was Bottom re-written as King Lear, minus the faithless daughters.

Fear gripped him once more and he heard himself scream even above the relentless noise of the thunder. The tears were forced from his eyes by his mysterious attackers and mingled with the blood, the salt stinging the open wounds on his face. I'm merely a plaything for the powers that own me, he thought, despair engulfing him and sending him to his nadir.

I cannot let them defeat me! Sheer force of will started to beat back his despondency. Mentally he took hold of the depression and despair visited on him by his captors and wrapped it up tightly into a small parcel within his mind, pushing it aside and opening another small parcel to replace it; the will to survive. You will not win! He screamed inside, pumping himself up to fight it. Fight your fear O'Neill, fight, fight! He had to overcome his terror or he was lost.

As the small parcel unfurled, it allowed him to force movement from his battered, bleeding, and tortured body. Shelter, I must find at least some small shelter. Blindly crawling in his hands and knees he willed himself towards the relative shelter of the surrounding woods. Maybe the rain would not be so unrelenting there.

Squinting through the blood and sweat that blocked his vision, he could see that the trees were still standing, undamaged by the power of the 'rain' that was burning into him. It looked like his only shot, so he took it, painfully slowly, with no strength to get to his feet and run the distance. With each drop of the bombarding water he flinched and quailed, but the small parcel he'd opened gave him the strength he had been lacking. Screw you! He believed he might have cried that aloud but wasn't sure.

Reaching the edge of the tree line, he forced himself onwards, further into the shelter he had chosen. The thunder and lightening continued unabated, but the impact of the rain was lessened by the thick branches and leaves overhead. If lightening hit one of these trees he might be fried, but he was dead anyway if he did nothing. This was the lesser of the evils that he could choose. He wasn't exactly overwhelmed by choices, and could only take this course, hoping it was the right one.

Deeper into the forest he crawled, agony shooting through him with each slow movement, blood leaving a trail in his wake. God help me, he thought, I don't want to die. I want to live, find out who I really am, find my way home, wherever that is. The circle was the answer, he knew that with certainty now. He had to find the circle.

At last he reached deep enough into the forest that few drops of the rain made it down through the trees. I don't get it, he thought, the trees should be dissolving with this acid rain that burns into my flesh. This isn't real, none of it is real. Only the pain and fear are real and I can defeat them. I can win! The adrenaline that his small parcel had provided to guide his way was depleted. He was exhausted and allowed himself to stop at last, in this sheltered place, collapsing in a heap of his own blood, but still holding onto a kernel of hope within his ravaged soul.

"I'm not giving up, you hear me?" He cried to whatever powers ruled in this place, the fairy folk, "You are gonna have to try a lot harder than that to kill Jack O'Neill!"

One thing he knew for certain about himself was that he was a stubborn son of a gun, not a man who gave up easily or without one heck of a fight. The lack of memories from his life before this did not stop him from having this revelation. Somehow he realised that he had faced poor odds before, and won, and could do the same thing now.

The noise of the thunder died away, and the lightening ceased, along with the rain. It was gone. He had to ask himself whether it was his will that had defeated it, and believed the answer was yes. His own mind was his greatest weapon against these captors.

But his exhaustion weakened him too much and the small parcel he had made of his depression and despair started to open of it's own accord. He had used all his will to get to this place and could no longer keep it tightly wrapped.

Carter and Daniel continued to argue the toss, while Daniel peered at the writings, trying to decipher them**. **Teal'c felt he could contribute nothing so remained silent until he believed he could. Smith and Duncan, from SG-9 kept watch, and their own counsel, believing that SG-1 would find a solution eventually and they would all go home either with the answer, or even better, with the Colonel.

'He is safe. He is Safe.'

Teal'c heard those words and looked around him, wondering where they came from. His team mates seemed oblivious, continuing their speculations. Had they not heard it? Was this for his ears alone?

'He is alive. He is alive."

"What have you done with him, where is he?" He asked in his head, hardly expecting a cogent answer.

'Test. Test.'

"He takes part in a test?" Teal'c continued to probe for answers.

'Yes. Yes.'

"And what is this test?"

'Special. Special.'

"He is special?" It wasn't the first time he had heard this said of O'Neill and it came as no surprise to Teal'c. He'd noticed that when they first met, or he would not be here now. "What do you do to him? Will he come back?"

'Yes. Yes.'

Teal'c wasn't sure which of his questions this answered.

"You will return him to us?"

'Yes. Yes.'

"He was chosen for this test because he is special?" He decided one question at a time was safest.

'Yes. Yes.'

"What is the test?"

'Life. Life."

This alarmed Teal'c.

"Is he in danger?"

'Yes, you too. Yes, you too.'

"Tell me what I wish to know."

'He will be returned.' Once voice this time.

"Alive and well?"

'We know not. You will find nothing useful here.' Said the one voice again, then both continued, one echoing the other, 'Leave. Leave. Danger. Danger.'

"MajorCarter, we must leave this place." Teal'c had a sense of foreboding about those words.

"Teal'c?" She looked at him, surprised and puzzled.

"We are in danger. We will find nothing more here. I suggest we hasten back to the gate."

"Teal'c? Why, what's happened?"

"They are here."

"The Furlings?" Asked Daniel.

"I know not who they are DanielJackson, but they are here and wish us to depart. They have spoken to me."

"Ummm... spoken to you?"

"Do you disbelieve me DanielJackson?"

"Of course not Teal'c, but why didn't we hear them?"

"They were inside of my head. Make haste."

Carter and Daniel both thought Teal'c looked slightly perturbed, if not a little spooked. This was unusual for the stoic Jaffa. They knew better than to ignore his words. Teal'c spoke infrequently but when he did it normally meant something.

"What about the Colonel?" Asked Carter.

"I will inform you as we progress to the gate, Major Carter."

"Ok, lets gear up and get out of here. Got everything you need Daniel?"

He nodded a response, carefully placing the video camera in his rucksack, and they started to walk as quickly as possible towards the gate while Teal'c related his brief and strange conversation.

You are totally alone and helpless; you are dying here, he thought, scared to open his eyes again to see how badly he was damaged; to face the blood he knew must lay thickly all around him. Every inch of his body was on fire with the pain. Did he have any skin left? All hope stopped there and only desolation remained. Let me die right here and now. No more of this, no more.

A whisper of comfort brushed against him gently. No my love, I cannot let you go yet, it said. It was her; Titania. Help me, he begged again, please help me. The wisps of mist caressed him, slowly easing his aches and anguish, and he was suddenly enfolded in paroxysms of pleasure.

The stinging at the surface of his skin turned to a tingle of delight, and then it moved deeper within him making him gasp aloud. Yes, my love, yes! A warm glow grew within him from his feet up through the rest of his body, turning into a glorious fieriness which overpowered his whole being. He reached out to try and grasp his ethereal lover wanting to enclose her in his embrace, face lit with a smile as she teased and danced within his arms.

This was far more powerful than what had been before; more intoxicating and exciting. Great waves of elation and contentment overwhelmed him and he groaned and twisted in her warmth, unable to do or think anything but react to her touch. Love you, love you, love you, he whispered, want you, want you, want you and he trembled in anticipation of what was to come. God yes! I'm yours and only yours.

The sweet tension mounted within him bringing him close to resolution but she refused to release him, continuing her slow tease and seduction so he thought he might not be able to bare the strain any longer. She possessed him more utterly than ever before and it gave him a sense of overwhelming joyfulness. He could not say how long he hung at the edge of the precipice but it was a very long time. The agonising ecstasy was like a drug and he was fully addicted now. His breath was ragged and he could feel her own responding sigh in his ear, and then moving across his face and neck. Oh! This was so much more, so intense.

Suddenly she released him, sucking him dry. He lay helpless, stunned by the beautiful freedom she provided but once again wanting her embrace to continue. This time she held onto him as he gave his soul up to her. Safe, he felt safe in her arms and her comfort was a balm to his battered body and mind. While she was here he was no longer alone and lonely. This time he could almost imagine her lying next to him, holding him in her arms and whispering her love for him.

Once more, my love, she said, possessing him again when he thought he was depleted and could give her nothing. This time there was an exquisite torture mingled with the delirium and desire. He screamed with the joyful suffering that overcame him. Yes my love, he whispered, you can take everything, all of me, until I have nothing left to give.

The pain and pleasure were so closely intertwined that he could no longer distinguish them. It was wondrous; spectacular feelings coursed though him, each nerve ending, and every inch of him. It ended in a rush of pure white agony that left him drained of the last vestiges of free will and energy. Bliss; total and utter paradise!

Then he was left alone and dispossessed, once more unable to move or even think. Nothing. He was nothing, no one, totally alone, and he bewailed that fate.

When he woke again the sun was beating down on him, hot and powerful. It permeated his closed eyelids and warmed his defeated body and soul. Finally he plucked up courage to open them, holding his hand to shade them from the bright intensity. Sun! So such a thing did exist. It was not just a figment of his dementia. He knew he must be mad; this could not be real. But what was reality? He was at a loss and felt a crushing sadness at his lack of knowledge and understanding. He had remembered so much, his name, the circle, names and faces - but it was nothing.

Remembering the rain which had cut and flayed his skin, he was scared to look at himself. When he did, he was surprised and pleased to find himself whole. No bloody pool, no red mess of open veins and capillaries. He breathed a sigh of relief, and then turned to look at his surroundings. Desert; yellow sand dune after yellow sand dune met his eyes, never-ending. Christ! He had thought about desert sometime before. Was it yesterday? The passing of time eluded him. Had he wished for this, promised to be here during one of his pleas for mercy, his bargains with his captors? Had his thoughts of a desert brought him here?

Once more he was left with nothing but his knife and the matches. His mouth was dry and he had no means of quenching his thirst.

Think, Jack, think! Dazed and confused, he didn't know what to do. Then he was filled with a clarity once again. He must fight for control, for survival. If he did not he would either die, or become enslaved forever. He wanted freedom, to know who he was, where he came from. The way in which she liberated him was wondrous but he required his own brand of freedom. Thoughts of resistance freed him from his loneliness and a steely determination overtook him. He was Jack O'Neill; he would win and become himself again, whoever that was.

So when she came again to possess him, he fought her. The bliss tried to invade him. No! he cried, I won't let you take me this time. You can't have me. I'm not yours, I'm mine. I belong to me! His struggle was a long and arduous; hard fought. Her caress touched his soul to it's dark depths, filling him with desire and longing. No! He would not let it defeat him. Determinedly he pushed the feeling away, trying to suppress his instincts to give way to the ravishment. I won't let you take me! The blissful misery receded slightly but still maintained a grip.

Go away and leave me alone. I won't be your slave, he screamed to his internal voice, I choose freedom! That thought brought another flash of memory into his mind. The man with the gold tattoo on his forehead that he had recalled before - Teal'c? He was struggling with his demons and Jack was at his side providing support. Another man was there, also with a gold tattoo, helping his friend to overcome the devils that he fought so hard to defeat. Teal'c had spoken those words, and won.

Jack was close to exhaustion with fighting her but would not let himself succumb, albeit that his body craved the drug she provided to fulfil his need and desire. This man Teal'c, he called him friend, of this he was sure. If he was here now he would be helping O'Neill to survive this, to fight. The notion gave Jack the will to continue his fight alone, overcome his fatigue.

'Freedom and pain my love?' She whispered.

An agony shot through him like fire. Crap!

"If that's my choice yes!" This time he screamed the words aloud.

Her gentle wisps of love touched him briefly, easing the pain and providing consolation and a short moment of total joy. Letting him know what he could choose, making him aware of what he was missing. Still he resisted and was struck with a jolt of pain that made his whole body screech in terror; she would tear him apart. It felt like she was doing just that. He was being ripped into small pieces and soon there would be nothing identifiable left.

The wonder of her gentle touch and the horror of her revenge for his rejection fought over him, soothing him with love, and bringing brief respites of ecstasy and great happiness; torturing him with agonising torments, battering him with relentless suffering and wretchedness. He was defiant. If I have to choose the pain to get the freedom, do your worst witch.

Stubbornly he tried to think of something else to help beat it back. He wanted her so badly, longed for her touch, and the pain was slowly but surely killing him. It would be all too easy to surrender and let her have him forever. It would be stupendous, wonderful and joyous but he would lack all free will. He couldn't allow that.

He kept the face of Teal'c in the forefront of his mind, and then conjured a vision of those other people he knew to be friends; Carter and Daniel. The images of the three fortified him as his mind flashed visions of the support they had offered.

He recalled again that hot and painful metal spear pinning him to the wall, but this time Teal'c was beside him, never leaving his side or wavering in his support and friendship. He thought of the acid that had burned through his body, rotting his insides, and Daniel beside him in a small cell, trying to comfort and support him against the pain and sorrow. It was a screwy vision, it seemed Daniel could not possibly have been there, but it was so real.

Carter. Somehow he knew she was special to him. She was not the blonde of his earlier sexual fantasy, he supposed that to be Sarah, a girlfriend or wife. But Carter had supported him through a number of years, his right hand and someone he would find it hard to do without. She was the Sam whose name he had recalled, alongside Sarah's. Carter had worked hard to bring him home when he was lost, held his hand in comfort, loyally followed his lead, even if she disagreed with his plans. She had saved his sorry ass a few times, whether he had deserved it or not.

If these three thought he was worth fighting for, worth saving, then he could think no less of himself. He would fight to get home to them, just as they would try to bring him home if they could. He concentrated on his vision of them. Their faces sat before his eyes smiling their support and friendship. He saw them clearly and knew that they would be there for him, would help him, if they could find a way.

"Death is freedom and I die free!" He cried, knowing he was near that final end, struggling for life.

Again, his words brought the big man Teal'c to the forefront of his mind, the towering strength of the man's determination to be free bolstering his own waning capacity for endurance and helping him beat back the terror. Rather die free than a slave, that was some thought to have at this moment and he silently thanked his friend for it.

These visions of his friends filled him with a force of will stronger than Titania's caress. She hissed in his ear as if he had hurt her. Go! He screamed inside, and she was unexpectedly gone.

Jack gasped for air, totally shattered and spent. Sweat poured from him as he lay there trying to recover. Hell! His heart sank at her absence, but he felt free and luxuriated in it. No pain. God that felt good!

"The course of true love never did run smooth." He whispered, again quoting from that mystical fable that Shakespeare had written so long ago.

Now to be truly free and go home, he thought eventually as he called on hidden reserves, and rose to strike out across the desert. The dunes seemed interminable and his pace was slowed by the shifting sands. His thirst was dominating and he knew he could die out there in the heat. There was no shelter and the winds blew sand in his face, causing the sun to beat down on him more fiercely, and he felt lonely and abandoned.

TBC in Part 3: Oberon 


	3. What Fools These Mortals Be Part 3: Ober...

Title: What Fools These Mortals Be Part 3: Oberon

Author: Su Freund

Email: sufreund (delete spaces)

Website: www ficwithfins com (insert . instead of spaces in the address)

Status: Complete

Category: Angst, Drama (and Jack whumping)

Pairings: None

Spoilers: Minor for Cold Lazarus, The Light

Season: First half of 7

Sequel/Series Info: None

Rating: PG-13

Content Warnings: Contains scenes that might be disturbing to some readers. Allusions to torture and what might be interpreted as activity of a sexual nature. Minor use of bad language.

Summary: With SG-1 unable to rescue him, the only way to escape his captors is for Jack to resist the forces that control his body, mind - and fate!

Disclaimer: Stargate SG-1 and its characters are the property of Stargate (II) Productions, Showtime/Viacom, MGM/UA, Double Secret Productions, and Gekko Productions. This story is for entertainment purposes only and no money exchanged hands. No copyright infringement is intended. The original characters, situations, and story are the property of the author. This story may not be posted elsewhere without the consent of the author. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

Copyright © 2004 Su Freund

File Size: 56 KB

Archive: My site, Jackfic yes, SJD yes, Gateworld, FanFiction Net

Author's Note:

1. Thanks to William Shakespeare for the title, and the use of some of his words throughout. This is not a sequel to 'Hell is Murky' but could be considered as the 2nd of a 'Shakespeare Series' of stand alone fics.

2. Thanks to Thalassa for agreeing that I could use her beautifully enhanced cap of Jack to illustrate this fic, and to Fulinn28 for making a great book cover from it. You can drool at Jack on my website.

3. And, once again, many thanks to Bonnie for her beta of this fic. Her comments on my original draft version led to many radical changes which improved it for the better.

**What Fools These Mortals Be Part 3: Oberon**

Teal'c was relieved when they stepped onto the ramp at the SGC still in one piece. He believed the rumbling of thunder heard in the skies as they walked was the impatient murmur of the beings who had spoken to him. Go, they were saying, or we will visit terrible things upon you.

General Hammond was also relieved to see the two teams back, all seven of his people returned to him safely. The debrief was interesting, if confusing.

"Furlings." He stated.

"Yes," Daniel said, letting his enthusiasm get the better if him, a broad smile on his face.

"Daniel, can we try to remember that the Colonel is still missing and we have no better idea how to bring him home now than when we started." Carter admonished and Daniel felt suitably chastised.

"Sorry."

"And you say they spoke with you Teal'c." Hammond stated again.

"Indeed GeneralHammond. I remain fearful for his welfare, despite their reassurances that he would return to us. They did not specify in what condition he would be returned. In fact, they appeared not to know the answer."

"So it depends on whether he passes the test?" Teal'c nodded his agreement with the General's succinct assessment of the situation.

"Are you suggesting that we just wait?" Hammond asked the Jaffa.

"I am suggesting that we have little option GeneralHammond, but this conclusion brings me no joy."

Looking at the faces around him he detected a lack of joy from all of them. Carter looked pissed, and determined to act while Daniel looked sad and perplexed. He had to find them a task otherwise what remained of his premier team would go nuts.

"Doctor Jackson, while we all consider this further why don't you make a start on translating the writings you found? Major Carter and Teal'c can assist in whatever way they can."

Carter looked even more pissed, and he knew she would have been happier if they'd found an alien device she could be working on. However, they hadn't so they were out of other options.

"Dismissed, and keep me apprised."

When they left he returned to his office, unable to concentrate on his work, worried about O'Neill's fate.

He had been thrown into this arid and desolate place without any way to prepare for it. You could survive almost anything if you were prepared; had the right equipment and clothing. What did he need? Water and shelter were probably the priority. What did he have? Nothing but a knife and a few matches. He'd have to improvise if he wanted to stay alive.

There would be water somewhere; it was knowing where and how to look. He could see nothing in the immediate vicinity that provided any clues. Until he found water, the only thing he could do was to conserve what moisture he had. That meant minimal sweating, which wasn't necessarily easy in extreme heat. He needed to keep sheltered during the hottest part of the day, moving only in the morning and evening, before the sun got too high in the sky, and after it's heat had peaked. This realisation caused him to stop moving and sit behind the temporary and almost non existent shelter of a dune.

Shelter was definitely a problem for there was nowhere and nothing, so he did his best with what he had, using his jacket to cover his head and shade his face. Now was not a good time to be moving around and he decided to wait.

As the sun moved lower in the sky he started off, hot and thirsty. Ironic if he should die now that he had freed himself from Titania's embrace. The thought made him laugh hysterically. He would not, could not let it defeat him and he moved onwards stubbornly. His stomach grumbled because it lacked sustenance, but food was the least of his problems.

When it got dark, and it did get extremely dark, he hunkered down to rest, and sleep if possible. It got mighty cold in the desert at night and he slept poorly with nothing to do but shiver, think about his plight and try to remember... anything.

At first light he set off again. It was hopeless; he didn't know if he was going in the right direction, or even where he was headed. Over the last few days he'd eaten little and probably hadn't drunk enough water either, now he thought about it. He was weakened because of that, and by the onslaughts from the mists, both the horrific and the glorious.

He figured the odds were against him and hoped to find a way to turn that around. His tongue was starting to swell up with thirst and he was worried about getting heat cramps, which could really 'cramp' his style. He laughed to himself at his little joke. But heat cramps would be no joke; they'd be painful and debilitating causing severe pain in his stomach and legs, possibly his arms too.

Even worse than cramps would be the heat exhaustion, a consequence of excessive heat and dehydration. It didn't take long to get heat related illnesses in these conditions. If he got something as serious as heat stroke he was probably as good as dead; delirium or seizures could kill him because they would make him helpless, and if he lost consciousness, game over. This was not his first time in a desert, he knew that, as well as all the consequences of his situation, and wished he could remember more.

When the human body loses too much liquid and is over heated, these symptoms become inevitable. This is why water is priceless; way beyond any treasure one can covet or imagine. Despite his precautions, he was losing too much liquid and was woefully ill equipped for this environment.

The sun was getting too high in the sky by now, the heat vigorous in it's attack. He tried to hide from it's glare, but his protection was inadequate.

The mists hadn't come back and he had never felt more alone. For a brief moment he thought that even their company was better than nothing; he could so easily give in to them. He didn't want to die alone. Then he figured that ultimately all men die alone and wondered where he had heard that before. Despite his solitude, begging the wisps to return was not a real option, however tempting. That way lay the loss of himself and, although he only held on to a fragment of who he was, that was more important than anything else, and he would give his life for it.

He didn't know it but these thoughts were his salvation. The will to resist, and to be Colonel Jack O'Neill, a free man, despite that he wasn't entirely sure who Jack O'Neill was, saved him.

The sun was starting to get scorching, his lips were dry and cracking and the sand was hot enough to burn. He stayed as still as he could, conserving every drop of moisture, and ounce of energy and resolve. He needed water fast or he would surely perish and his bones become bleached relics buried in the sand. He could feel the onset of cramps in his stomach already, and bent double with pain; the rest would inexorably follow unless he could cool down. His physical strength was beginning to fail him.

'Worthy! Worthy!'

The voices whirled in his head, soothingly. Did this mean he had competed his task and his ordeal was over? Unexpectedly, a child stood at the top a dune, beckoning him. Was this a mirage? Despite his doubts, he managed to scramble onto his feet to meet with the child.

"Don't you know me dad?" The young boy asked as he approached.

"Charlie?"

With sudden clarity he remembered his son, and the fate that had been his; death by Jack's own gun. That nearly felled Jack but Charlie reached and touched his face suffusing him with comfort.

"It's alright dad, you'll be alright."

"Charlie? What you doing here son?"

He took the vision in his arms and clung to him. This had to be another trick, another distraction. This boy who looked like Charlie could not be real. Charlie was long dead.

"I've come to take you home dad."

Jack drew back from his embrace to search his son's eyes and was met by a handsome smile. You must look like your mother, he thought, imagining the blonde woman who he'd seen himself copulating with at some point in this existence.

"Home?"

Charlie took his hand and led him over the dunes. His thirst and the heat meant nothing to him, just the feel of his son's small hand holding his own larger one.

As they topped the next dune he saw what he had been seeking; a gigantic circle with symbols around its circumference. The Stargate. He knew what it was now and had a better idea about his place in the universe. He was Colonel Jack O'Neill of the United States Airforce and he would prevail.

Sheer force of will, and his son's guiding hand, allowed him to stagger the last few yards to the DHD. He smiled down at Charlie. His son had saved him; it was more than he deserved.

Dialling Earth's co-ordinates, he was pleased to see the chevrons light obediently. He smiled; he was going home. The kawoosh of the wormhole startled him. He had forgotten that part, the shimmering pool of water and its magic, but his memory was fast returning.

'Worthy! Worthy!'

The voices in his head said.

"Are you coming Charlie?" He asked, crouching down to his son.

"Only you can go dad." He reached his hand to stroke his father's face and grinned encouragingly. "You must go now dad."

"I don't want to leave you Charlie."

"You must. You will die if you stay here."

"But what about you?"

"I am already dead, remember?" he looked almost cheerful about it.

"I..." O'Neill started. How could he forget? He would never forget. "Come here son. One last hug for your old man?"

They hugged for a while until Charlie urged him on again.

"You must forgive yourself dad."

His son's stare bored into him. Jack knew he alluded to his own death.

"I'll never forgive myself Charlie. Never."

"But you must. You must live again."

"I live well enough Charlie. I do okay."

"But you are unhappy."

"Not all the time. A lot of the time I'm... well, I'm... fine." He smiled briefly at the vision of his son and stood again.

"I'm glad dad. But you could be happier."

"So could most folks Charlie. That's part of being human."

His son nodded understanding and Jack grasped his shoulder.

"Goodbye Charlie. Maybe I'll see you again some day."

"Goodbye dad. Be careful."

"Always am."

Jack turned from his son reluctantly, although he knew he wasn't real. He hated leaving him but had to go home now. It was time. As he stepped through the puddle he thought, "Iris code!" and expected to meet oblivion at the other end. Instead he found himself walking out into a gigantic room. At the other end of it sat a man and woman. He couldn't be sure from this distance but it looked like they were sitting on thrones with crowns perched on their heads. Forsooth, he thought, the King and Queen. This was too weird.

'Worthy! Worthy!'

He had passed the test, he'd figured that much out for himself. The million dollar question was, what was being tested? Just as puzzling, why him?

'Approach! Approach!'

He walked towards them cautiously, realising that he was no longer thirsty, or over heated. He felt fine.

'Worthy! Worthy!'

He remembered everything now. He and the team had been on a routine mission. He was walking along minding his own business, checking out Carter's butt if truth be told, and had awoken paralysed, surrounded by the mist, with no memory of anything. These two creeps were responsible; they were so gonna get theirs.

As he drew closer he thought, this is her and gasped at her beauty, a lump in his throat. He yearned for her so badly, the mist in the wind, but was at pains not to show any of that.

I know! Her voice in his head. He nearly buckled. She smiled and his heart raced. Oh God!

'Kneel, kneel.'

He tried to stand resolute, refusing to bow before them. A searing pain forced him to his knees. Kneel, okay, I get it. Defiantly, he looked them in the eye.

"Hey, if it isn't Oberon and Titania." He quipped sarcastically.

'Impertinence, impertinence.'

Oberon's voice would whisper it first, then Titania would echo him. But neither opened their mouths. They were merely wisps, figments. These were not real people who sat before him.

"So, what now? You wanna see my performance of Pyramus and Thisbee?" He said cheekily, referring to the play within the play called A Midsummer Night's Dream. Which role was it that Bottom had played? Pyramus, the secret lover. How strangely apt that seemed.

"Lord, what fools these mortals be!" Said Oberon to Titania, aloud. That was definitely weird. It was from Midsummer Night's Dream; Puck deriding the foolishness of lovers. Jack knew his Shakespeare well.

"You may call me Oberon if you wish."

'And me Titania, my love.' She said in his mind.

Damn! He guessed that must mean they could read at least some of his thoughts. How much did they know?

'Everything! Everything!

Jack groaned at the notion.

"We know you are worthy." Oberon said aloud again.

"Worthy." She echoed. "It is all that matters my darling."

"Worthy of what?"

'Life, life.' They whispered inside his head. Life? That was a good thing then.

"Why me?" He asked.

'Why not? Why not?'

"Because you were there. And you were the leader. And you are special" The King vocalised.

"Special?"

'Both average and above average, my darling. You represent your race well.' She replied in his head.

"And did I win a prize?" Jack quipped, bitterly.

'Life, life.'

"Your species may continue."

"You mean the test was for my whole race?" Jack enquired, stunned.

'Yes, yes.'

Who were these people that they thought themselves gods? More false gods, just not Goa'uld ones. He gulped, pleased he hadn't know that from the outset. No pressure. Hah! He wondered how he had passed.

'Resisted, resisted.'

'Survived, survived.'

"My deadly embrace."

This time it was Titania who spoke aloud and she rose and walked towards him. Maybe, glided was a better word to describe her movements. When she reached him she stroked his cheek and he sighed. Her touch was electrifying, sending shivers through him.

"Please, don't." He begged.

"But you have already passed the test. Now we can do as we wish, my love."

Jack looked towards Oberon, who seemed indifferent to his partner's whim. Titania lifted her face to his, touching her lips to his. Oh sweet kiss! It thrilled him and he embraced it, taking her head in his hand and pulling her closer, running his hands through her hair. She was not ethereal now; this was no wisp. He desperately needed her intoxication and could feel the pleasure raging through him once more.

"No!" He pushed her away abruptly. He couldn't let this happen, no matter how much his body craved it. He had likened it to a drug and, once they had parted, felt an acute withdrawal from her and nearly moved to take her in his arms again. He was wracked with pain, bent double with the cramps in his stomach.

'Impossible, impossible.'

"One without the other." Oberon explained, meaning that he could not have the pleasure without the pain. Ying and Yang. Equal and opposite.

Jack was on the floor writhing now and she whispered that she could stop this agony with her ecstasy, but he refused. Goddammit I will defeat this! He was determined and obstinate, as ever. That is what had saved him, saved his planet if what they said was true.

He wanted to ask them more about that, who they were, and what the hell they thought they were doing, but wasn't in a position to open his mouth beyond a cry of dismay. Then it stopped as suddenly as it had started, and he lay on his back, hands covering his face, slowly recovering from his attack. When he sat up to face them once more, Titania had returned to her King's side.

"Are you going to tell me more about your race? And the test?" He asked, not hopeful that they would be forthcoming. He was right.

"It matters not." Replied Oberon.

"It matters to me!" But Oberon merely shrugged, obviously not interested in Jack's opinion.

"Do I get to go home?"

'Yes, yes.'

"You will not remember, my love." Titania said sadly.

More words from that play came to his head at that. Puck, at the end of the final Act, if he recalled correctly.

'If we shadows have offended, think but this, and all is mended. That you have but slumbered here, while these visions did appear, and this weak and idle theme, no more yielding but a dream.'

'One more kiss before we part my sweet?' She offered in his head, once more approaching him and standing so close that she was invading his personal space. Oh God, he would love that, wanted it more than almost anything. The very idea inspired a physical craving the like of which he had never known. Resist Jack, he told himself, you must go home.

"No, please, no." He begged, thinking of all the years he had avoided non prescription drugs. If he gave way, would he be trapped here with her forever? That held some appeal. No more responsibility. No more loneliness. No more fighting the demons of his reality, and his nightmares; only her.

"Will I...?" He started to ask, but got no chance to finish his question.

Oberon and Titania faded into mist, swirling and echoing around him once again.

'Goodbye, goodbye.'

She touched him briefly, once more filling him with desire. He gasped, then abruptly she stopped and he reached out to her but there was nothing there. He was on the planet where all this had started, standing before an open wormhole. All his gear was in place as it had been on the mission. He was overwhelmed with regret and sorrow at what he had sacrificed. Sweet Titania! Then almost without cognisance, he walked through the wormhole and home.

"It's the SG-1 iris code sir." Simmons informed Hammond.

"Open the iris." Could this be O'Neill, returned to them by some miracle?

The SFs were already in the gate room, pointing their weapons warily towards the incoming wormhole, ready to defend their base, country and planet if necessary. Hammond alerted the rest of SG-1 who came running to the gate room pronto, while he made his way quickly down the stairs to meet whatever came through; friend or foe.

O'Neill appeared dazed and confused at the head of the ramp and the wormhole closed behind him. Physically, he looked fine but his legs buckled beneath him and he collapsed at the foot of the ramp onto the floor, unconscious before he even hit the ground.

With his arrival, all memory of the conversation with those ethereal beings who might be Furlings was erased from Teal'c's memory, and any conversations alluding to it from the minds of his team mates and General Hammond. They were not aware of it so knew nothing of what they missed.

Hammond called for the medical team just as the rest of SG-1 appeared. Confusion reigned as O'Neill was taken off to the infirmary and Janet tried to find a physical reason for his collapse.

"He appears to be fine physically sir. I can't find anything wrong with him." She reported to Hammond later.

The General and SG-1 watched O'Neill as she spoke. He was fitful, as if tossing and turning in a restless night's sleep, his dreams invading his body.

"Will he be alright, Doctor?" He asked but she merely shrugged, not knowing the answer to that question.

They were all relieved to see him back, all worried about what might have happened in the time he had been missing. They had never found any trace of him that could lead them to his whereabouts and had believed they might have lost him forever; despite Teal'c conversation with his captors. All of their hearts had been heavy with the loss and had lightened at his return, only to have their hopes dashed with this turn of events.

Janet noted the expressions on their faces; concern, dread, devotion. She knew that his team were so fundamentally loyal to their leader that they would take any set-back badly. Over the last few days their hearts had been broken at his loss, and their apparent powerlessness to do anything to rectify it, find him and bring him home. Now this added to their burden. She had no easy answers. In her heart she felt he would recover from whatever malaise now affected him. However, she did not want to be the purveyor of false hope as she had no evidence to back up this theory

"I wish I had an answer sir." She replied.

"Keep me informed Doctor." Hammond said, turning on his heel to go back and work. He couldn't let O'Neill distract him from his higher purpose. He had a Stargate programme to run and many staff under his command. That O'Neill was special to him should not be made obvious to the rest of his command. However, they all knew that. O'Neill was special to many of them.

"Janet?" Carter looked her friend in the eyes. "Can we stay?"

They were used to spending hours at his side in this place, when Janet and their duties permitted. They would sometimes take turns to watch their leader when they could, trying not to leave his bedside vacant until they knew he would be alright. Sometimes nothing short of a direct order from Hammond, or Doctor's orders, could prise them away.

When Jack suddenly awoke, a day later, Teal'c was at his side and called for the doctor immediately.

"Teal'c old buddy." Jack smiled at his friend. "What am I doing here?" He asked, looking around at the infirmary surroundings. Before Teal'c had any opportunity to respond Janet entered.

"Colonel. it's good to have you back with us."

"I went away?" He asked, dreamily. She smiled and put on her best bedside manner.

"I need to examine you sir." O'Neill nodded his response, knowing that all would become clear in time. He had no memory of an injury that would have brought him to this place.

"I will inform MajorCarter and DanielJackson that O'Neill is conscious, DoctorFrasier." Teal'c bowed, discretely leaving her to perform whatever tests she felt necessary and tell his friends of O'Neill's present condition.

The first thing Janet noticed was O'Neill's dilated pupils and she wondered why. He looked like he had taken some form of drug but she had needed to give him nothing while he was here. His eyes were watery and his nose runny, as if he had a cold. Suddenly he started to shake violently and a look of total panic came to those rheumy eyes.

"W... what's happening Doc?" He stammered. She wished she knew. When she had entered the room he had seemed alright and no symptoms had haunted him while he had been unconscious.

"God, I feel sick!" he exclaimed loudly and vomited violently all over the bed clothes and clothing he wore. "I need the toilet."

"Bedpan, quickly!" She ordered one of the nurses who had come to her cries for help. They caught his bout of diarrhoea just in time. "Lets get him moved to another bed and cleaned up so I can examine him. Not to worry Colonel, we'll soon get this sorted out."

The tremors subsided, conveniently allowing the nurses to undertake their tasks while Janet considered the symptoms. Almost as soon as he was clean and moved, he bent double with cramps.

"Jesus Christ!" He exclaimed. "Doc?" His watery eyes pleaded for a cure. It was unlike O'Neill, who was generally either stoical or just a pain in the ass when he was confined to the infirmary.

His skin was covered with goose bumps and he was trembling again, hands shaking. Covered in sweat, he was clammy and cold to the touch.

"Be ready for more vomiting or diarrhoea." She warned the nursing staff, "and I don't want him left alone."

The rest of SG-1 had arrived earlier and she kept them waiting outside while O'Neill was wracked with pain, sweats and more vomiting. This time they managed to save both him and the bedding from getting covered once more. The look of panic in O'Neill's eyes was more worrying to Frasier than anything. The Colonel was not the panicky type. The symptoms reminded her of something, but it was not possible.

"If I didn't know better I would say he was suffering from narcotic withdrawal. I found no sign of any drug in his system that might cause these symptoms." She explained later to the General and the rest of O'Neill's team.

"Maybe an unidentified drug, Doctor?" Hammond posited.

"No sign of any foreign substances in his system Sir."

Hammond sighed loudly. O'Neill spent more time in the infirmary than any of his other officers. The place was like a second home.

"So, what now?" Carter asked.

"To be honest, I don't know. If it was withdrawal from a drug at least I might be able to get a handle on it. But this...?" She shrugged, trying not to look too worried, "all I can do is treat any symptoms and hope he gets over it on his own. If only he could remember what had happened while he was missing it might help. He was pretty stunned to discover he had been MiA for two weeks. He remembers nothing; walking along with you on the mission, then nada until waking up here."

"We'd really like to see him Janet." Daniel said. They had not been allowed into the infirmary since all this had started.

"He doesn't want you there." Seeing the look in their eyes she expanded. "Look, he is vulnerable, hurting and miserable, not to mention cranky and subject to sudden panic attacks. He won't eat properly, claims he has no appetite, and if I force him he just throws it all up again. You must understand why someone like him does not want his team to see him in that state."

"But we're his friends Janet. He needs us." Carter intervened.

"I'll try telling him that, Sam, but you know how obstinate he can be."

Carter growled in frustration, reflecting the whole team's feelings about the stubborn nature of their leader.

"Well, he can't refuse to see me Doctor." The General said, assuredly. Seeing the look on Frasier's face he added, "I insist. I can be stubborn too, and I have the stars on my uniform to prove it."

As he was pulling rank Janet had no option, despite O'Neill's insistence that she allow no visitors. The General and Frasier entered the infirmary, leaving O'Neill's friends to fret.

"Janet!" Jack exclaimed grumpily when he saw she had come with a visitor.

"I pulled rank, Jack, so don't take it out on her. How are you feeling?"

"Peachy." Jack mumbled sarcastically.

"Doctor Frasier tells me that you have no memory of what happened to you while you were missing."

"I didn't even know I was missing until she told me sir." Jack resigned himself to the fact that he could not avoid Hammond.

He had been grasping at... something since his return, but could not get a grip in it. It was nebulous, like waking from a dream and only being able to remember snatches that flickered in the waking light. They were too vague for him to build any picture in his mind.

One thing he knew with certainty was that he yearned for something. There was a hole in his life but he didn't know what it was or how he could fill it. The thing he missed was what made him suffer now. It was like a physical longing; if he could only get a dose of the right medicine he would feel himself again. He had such a sense of loss and emptiness that it could almost overpower him. Sometimes it did, and this is when he was at his worst; the trembling and shaking, sweating and cold chills, vomiting and diarrhoea, and cramps in his muscles and stomach.

He knew without Janet's confirmation what these symptoms portended. He was addicted to something and only exposure to that thing would help him. That or he just had to get over it. Beat it. Beating it was always the best option for Jack, so he fought hard. Nevertheless, he knew in his heart that he very badly wanted the thing that had caused this. It irritated him that he couldn't remember what it was. The dream snatches told him something of pleasure and pain and he longed for both.

Janet had theorised that what he had was not life threatening; unlike that time they had all been exposed to the weird light on P4X-347, the Goa'uld pleasure palace. Then they had needed to stay on the planet to get over their withdrawal gradually; immediate withdrawal would have killed them just as it had too many others. He wished he had the option of gradual withdrawal; cold turkey was no fun whatever.

Hammond asked him a few more questions which he answered irritably but without shedding any light on his current predicament. Before he left, Hammond admonished him.

"You shouldn't turn your back on your team Jack. They are worried about you and want to see you and how you are for themselves."

"I can't let them see me like this, General." He said as a violent shaking overcame him for a while. Hammond waited until it subsided.

"I think they've seen worse son." Worse? Jack couldn't recall feeling worse, although Hammond was probably right. "They aren't just your team, Jack, you know that. These people consider themselves your friends. They want to help you." Jack sighed and considered this.

"Do you think they feel rejected sir?" He asked.

"Well, they are... aren't they?" Was Hammond's riposte, and he left Jack to think about it, trying to reassure SG-1 about Jack's condition on his way out.

'It seems your embrace might be as poison to these humans, my love.' Oberon commented to Titania as they watched over O'Neill and the SGC.

'He will recover, my darling.' She replied. 'But I will always be with him, curled up in his soul, quiet but undefeated.'

'You are certain of his recovery. We intended no long term harm.'

'This is an unfortunate consequence, I confess. But I am certain he will prevail. He is strong. Not many humans could have withstood my power in that way.'

'No my sweet, he is indeed formidable. A worthy champion for the human race. We chose well.'

'He will never know the truth of it. None of them will.'

'You are confident he will remember nothing?' He asked, obviously perturbed by the notion that he might have a sudden recollection of events.

'Not entirely. We must check from time to time I think.'

'It is important that they never learn of it.'

'I will make sure of that my love. What of the recording they made of the writings.'

'I think you will find that their record has been erased, along with their memory of it.'

'How clever of you my pet.' She smiled at him, if an ethereal being can be said to smile. Nevertheless he sensed the smile and returned it. "You carried out your mission well, little one." She said as another being entered their domain.

'I miss him, and my mom.' Charlie replied. 'I'm glad I could help him. I wish I could have told him more.'

'He would not remember it.' replied Oberon.

'If he knew I had to die for a reason...'

'He would be happier? Without your death he would be a very different man. Without it he would not be where he is now. It is your death that made him special, Charlie, and it enables him to play his important role in the universe. And so does him blaming himself for that death. His lack of self forgiveness is a powerful weapon against your world's enemies.'

'I know. It's just sad, that's all.'

'Are you happy here, Charlie?' Asked Titania.

'Of course, but I still miss them.'

'You humans are strange creatures. Now run along and play with the others Charlie. We wish to be alone.'

He left them alone and the mists which had been separated came together and twirled majestically, spiralling around each other in playful lovemaking. They both felt exhilaration and ecstasy combined, just as Jack had at Titania's sweet touch.

With the two of them it was so much more than the combustible mixture of Titania and O'Neill. Titania and Oberon were meant for each other, had been together for hundreds of years and would remain together for hundreds more, perfectly matched. When they reached their crescendo they could have moved mountains. Nevertheless, Titania missed her other love O'Neill. One did not merely enter that transcendent relationship with another being and expect to exit unscathed, or forget. O'Neill might be the lucky one as they had forced him to forget, but she would be with him forever now, and he with her.

Between spasms of pain and waves of nausea Jack thought about what Hammond had said. Was he alienating his team by pushing them away? Possibly. Hammond was right, they were his friends. He didn't have too many of those and should keep the ones he had close, rather than at arms length. The problem for him was that he could be an arms length kind of guy. He hated that they would see him weak and vulnerable and he was loathed to ask for help.

Could they help fill that hole; complete his missing part? He pondered that.

Maybe some company would help. He did feel alone and friendless and knew he didn't need to be. His team would be there for him through thick and thin, as both friends and team members In his heart he knew that; it would take a lot to deter them from their loyalty to him. If he didn't know that after all these years, what did he know? Loyalty, friendship, mutual respect. These feelings were the most important things in his life. What else was there?

By rejecting them he might be testing them to their limits or beyond. He could not risk that; could not chance that he might overturn their steadfastness by his actions. So in the end, he agreed to let them in, much to the relief of his team.

The three friends stood around his bed looking slightly awkward. O'Neill was pale and it appeared he hadn't had a decent night's sleep in a while. He was losing weight. They tried not to show their concern in their faces. When he had first returned from the planet he had looked perfectly fit and healthy, despite his immediate collapse. This was just too weird and obviously something alien. But Janet had still found nothing to explain the symptoms and she had run every test in the book, more than once. They all smiled at him, even Teal'c.

"Hey kids!" He said, trying to sound cheery.

"O'Neill."

"Jack."

"Good to see you sir."

They each said. Carter squeezed his hand, which was swiftly followed by Daniel grasping his arm. Teal'c merely bowed his head in his usual manner and Jack nodded back his acknowledgement.

"It's good to see you too Carter, all of you." He replied to their greetings.

"And that is why you have failed to allow us entrance to the infirmary O'Neill?" Asked Teal'c with an arched eyebrow. Trust Teal'c to come right out with it!

"I'm sorry." O'Neill looked suitably ashamed. "I'm glad you're here now." And to his surprise, he genuinely was.

This was how it came to be that one of his team was with him always, asleep or awake. They took turns and Hammond and Doctor Frasier indulged them.

They saw him at his worst. When he was sick, his eyes watering, his nose running. While he threw up the contents of his stomach, or lack of them, violently retching nothing. When he shook all over, clammy and sweating. When he was in paroxysms of agony, curled into himself on the bed to defeat the violent cramps that made his stomach feel turned inside out. When he was irritable and rude, or depressed and dismally glum. One of them would squeeze his hand or arm, smile at him reassuringly and stay unwavering by his side, despite those awful moments.

They saw him at his best. When he would crack a joke that had the nurses in hysterics. When he would smile happily and light up the whole room. When he would beat them at chess or cards and cheer loudly enough to wake the base. When he would finally sleep and his face was at rest and peaceful. When he would play with his yo-yo or be similarly child-like, fiddling with anything and everything within reach of his restless hands. When he would meet their eyes and tell them he was grateful without saying a word. One of them would laugh and smile with him, look him in the eye and exchange a secret smile that spoke more than mere friendship.

He knew that they were there for him, no matter what, because they wanted him to know it. His heart was warmed by them and filled with joy and they sustained him. Waking to the smile of one of them each day lifted his spirits and helped him to heal.

O'Neill's symptoms were improving; he was winning the fight. Jack knew that he won not just on his own merits but because his friends were there supporting him. He had quickly stopped feeling embarrassed because they saw him at his most vulnerable. Indeed, they gave him the power to fight all the harder, and a reason for doing so. He'd got used to their presence and had grown to like never being alone or lonely. Although he remembered nothing of his captivity, except formless whispers, his heart told him he had been isolated, forlorn, and friendless. So he basked in the comradeship and devotion so clearly demonstrated by his friends.

The day came when O'Neill was sufficiently recovered that the Doc thought he could go home.

"We'll celebrate with a take out and beers." Said Daniel. "At your place." Jack grinned, liking that idea very much.

Carter drove, with Laurel and Hardy in the back. Jack had recently started to call them that because it seemed so appropriate. Since Daniel's resurrection, the two men had grown closer than ever. Daniel reminded Jack of the accident prone Laurel, while T played the role of the mainly stoical, sometimes impatient, Hardy. A man who stuck by his friend despite his indiscretions, and raised his eyes to the heavens in dismay. Carter found the whole notion hilarious and she and O'Neill would exchange a knowing look when the two men did something that reminded them of the comic duo, and try not to laugh.

The four friends spent an amiable time together. Jack ate heartily, which the other three were pleased to see, and displayed none of his earlier symptoms. It seemed he was over it, or certainly the worst of it.

When Jack declared he wanted to go to bed, Daniel insisted that he would stay the night 'just in case' he needed anything. It ended up with all three of them staying as none of them wanted to leave. Although he would not always think so, for that night, Jack found comfort in the fact that he would wake and they'd be there. Daniel promised to make pancakes on the morning and Jack wondered aloud whether they might be better to eat breakfast out. Daniel's looked of chagrin ensured that Jack went off to bed with a smile on his lips.

He was happy and at peace but knew there was something missing in his life and always would be. The elusive something that he had never identified and never would. He mourned it's loss, and yearned for it's return, even though he didn't know what it was. Relaxing into the mattress, he thought, it's good to be home and, as he started to doze off, he imagined he heard a whisper echo softly through his head.

'Goodnight, my love, sweet dreams.'

She would always be there with him, but he would probably never know.

The End 

Stargate SG-1 Fan Awards 2004  
Best New (Ship) Author: Su Freund  
Best Angst (Sam/Jack): Understandings and Misunderstandings by Su Freund  
Best Hurt/Comfort (Sam/Jack): Not Letting Him Down by Su Freund


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